


tongues tied

by kaermorons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bilingual Bisexuals Unite, Bilingual Kink, Dirty Talk, Disappointing Andzrej Sapkowski, Disappointing David Peterson, I Reject Your Grammar Rules and Substitute My Own, I'm sure GOT fans have done worse to Dothraki, Jaskier's Canon Bilingualism, M/M, Sins Against Conlangs, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Translated, this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't translated 'cock' david
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: One of the first things Geralt was shocked to know about Jaskier was that he knew enough of the Elder Speech to piss off some very cagey, territorial Elves. Jaskier, in his incessant war against silence, surprised him with more vocabulary than Geralt was used to.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 39
Kudos: 492





	1. Footnoted version

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dedalvs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dedalvs/gifts).



> Chapter 1 uses footnotes for English translations, click the superscript link to jump to the bottom for the footnote. Chapter 2 is the _same exact story_ as Chapter 1, but instead has in-text translations right after the Hen Linge text. Chapter 3 explains my thought process that went into translating, sources I found, and generally an apology to David Peterson. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 10APR2020: Hey y'all. AO3's latest update just bumped around my anchors and returns in HTML, so until I can devote some focus to fixing it, the links will be one or two references off. Luckily, [the in-line text chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674520/chapters/54211846) still works just fine. Thanks.

The first time it happened, Geralt hardly knew the obnoxious bard’s name. Geralt was more concerned with not pissing off the Elves enough to get himself out of this situation, when the bard suddenly spat out, “ _Aa, es me kempte, me zol grasha._ ” [1]

It caught him off-guard in the way that humans tended to do once every decade or so. The way the words had rolled, tremulous and rich, off of the bard’s tongue sent a shock up Geralt’s spine. Unfortunately, the moment had no time for introspection, as the witcher soon had a blade aimed at his throat and all eyes on them.

It was more of a surprise, then, that Geralt didn’t instantly banish Jaskier (because that was his name, Jaskier) from his presence the moment they were free of their bonds and on the road again. He had no path in mind save for the Path, and Geralt didn’t think having some entertainment would be too bad. He had little experience with traveling in the company of others, much less a common bard.

Jaskier, however, did not know when to shut the hell up.

Gerealt learned many things. The quip about the bard being rusty at Elder Speech didn’t seem to stop the man from speaking as much as he could remember at any given moment. Geralt never learned Elder, so he appreciated not being able to understand the bard for several long minutes a day.

“ _Me peikhil er’vela Gwynbleidd…_ ” [2]

Jaskier was obviously trying to write a song with his limited vocabulary. He kept coming back to that same line, though, the syllables dripping off his tongue like honey. No wonder Elder was the language of magic. “You know, I don’t think the Elves or Dryads would appreciate you singing about mutants killing non-human beasts in the Northern Kingdoms.” Geralt said, adjusting his grip on Roach’s reins but not turning to look at Jaskier.

“Some songs, my interesting and adventurous friend, are not for the ears of others but myself. And well, you, I suppose.” he seemed so nonchalant about it. Geralt felt like he gave a satisfying enough answer. Jaskier’s Elder verses only grew...more creative...as time went on, walking the paths together.

“ _En’ca minne, kain me a’beithe? Aa, ein ted esei evall ys the…_ ” [3]

Jaskier broke into a fit of giggles, which Geralt obviously did _not_ find charming as hell. Obviously. Roach gave a little nicker at the line, as if she knew what he was saying. He continued to play, strums of his lute interrupted with stifled laughter. He changed the line a few hours later, when they had made camp for the night. It sounded sadder, now.

 _"Het esse teiw zol tearth, paerthe kern. Het esse sheinte ein gwynt ein me kern. Nell’ea? Nell’ea? Nell’ea te vel’elaine…?_ ” [4]

Geralt said nothing, looking away when Jaskier seemed to find a hitch in his breath as their eyes locked across the campfire. His hands faltered on an arpeggio, and the moment dissipated like the mist.

“Gwent.” Geralt said, awkwardly, suddenly. Jaskier shifted uncomfortably.

“What?” the bard asked, nearly half asleep and tired from the day’s trek.

“You said gwent. Like the game.” Geralt explained. “Are you singing about cards?”

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “No. I said _gwynt_ , which means wind, gale, breeze, could mean breath in some contexts. One could be derived from the other, since gwent is so fast-paced.” he seemed to relax again against his bedroll, looking up at the stars. “I thought someone who’s been on the Continent as long as you would know _some_ Elder. Especially if you’ve been to Skellige.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, not too pleased with being reminded of his relative age to the bard’s own. Jaskier chuckled at his non-answer.

“ _Keilme, vatt’ghern._ ” [5]

* * *

The next day, Jaskier was a little more subdued. Geralt knew the man probably never had a hard day of work in his life, and life on the Path wasn’t one of idle comforts. Inns and villages were few and far between, more so when humans didn’t take to Geralt’s kind with more or less open arms. However, his (begrudgingly admitted) companion seemed keen to change the tune of the wind at Geralt’s back from one of infamy to heroism. He’d only seen how Geralt handled the Elves and the sylvan, and was eager for more action.

They finally came upon a town on the outskirts of Dol Blathanna. Jaskier’s pace sped up, and he shouted behind him to take his time getting in. Geralt was more than willing to make camp at the edge of town, in the forest where humans wouldn’t gawk at him.

An hour later, he heard Jaskier skipping down the lane, humming happily to himself. Geralt emerged from the treeline to signal his location to the bard. “Geralt! Hope you haven’t set up camp already. Got us a room at the inn, and uh, these?” Jaskier reached into a pocket and pulled out several scraps of paper, most likely pulled from the town announcement board. One clearly requested the services of a Witcher. “What’s it called when a woman is killed on her wedding day and haunts where she was killed?”

Geralt snatched the papers from Jaskier. “Noonwraith. Who did you get these from?”

“I’ll have you know, they were given to me rather abruptly. Thrust into my hand the moment I finished singing my new song.” Jaskier fixed him with a smug, lopsided smile that obviously didn’t upend gravity as Geralt knew it. Obviously. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Aa, n’te einmuren eiyne yn me kern, vatt’ghern_.” [6]

Geralt ignored what he was sure was some snarky quip in Elder, and took Roach by the reins. “Is there a stable in town?”

Jaskier babbled the entire way into town, describing in excruciating detail how he bewitched the crowd into their generous state. He talked while Geralt stabled Roach, he talked while they got some food and supplies, he talked while they went to the alderman to get more details on the noonwraith.

“You’re going to have to be quiet if we’re hunting a noonwraith tomorrow.” Geralt snipped at him as they walked back to the inn they were being boarded at.

“Okay, _me linge grethilen_.” [7]

Jaskier was quiet the next morning as they trekked out to the field the noonwraith most likely haunted.

The story was this: a girl named Yulia was meant to be wed to a boy named Jan. Jan skipped town on the morning of their wedding, and Yulia killed herself in the field they first met. A horrible gale had swept into town that day, and most of Yulia’s wedding garb had blown about the field, caught on stakes in the ground, thorned flower patches, and generally made Geralt’s job a lot fucking harder.

“You can’t just tell me a story like that!” Jaskier exclaimed.

“It’s what happened, bard. Men leave women when they want commitment, unless they’re smart enough to not create a fucking monster in their wake.”

“That happen to you much?” Jaskier prodded, hands touching the flowers around them excitedly. He’d left his beloved lute in the inn room, unsure of what fighting a noonwraith would entail. “I said it before, you smell of heartbreak, and - oh, how pretty!” Jaskier was bending at the waist suddenly, hand reaching out for a scrap of gauzy ivory fabric just off the path.

“Jaskier, no!” Geralt bellowed, but it was too late. In a flash of light and broken shrieks, a deformed, willowy creature pulled itself from the ground, flowers hanging off its grotesque head and stringy hair. Jaskier stumbled back in fright, hands still clutching at the fabric - a veil, most likely. He turned his head toward the witcher before darting away from the danger.

“Geralt…!” Jaskier warbled, hiding behind the witcher.

“Give me that.” Geralt snatched the veil from the bard’s trembling hands. “Get out of the field.” Geralt unsheathed his silver blade and ignited the veil in his hands with Igni. The wraith let out a mournful shriek again, rage focused on the man before her.

Once Jaskier was a safe distance away, Geralt slipped into a fighting stance, luring its uncontrolled swipes toward the open center of the field. “Come on!” he shouted at it, taunting it so it’d attack and leave itself vulnerable.

The attack took longer than expected, with Geralt barely managing to throw up an Yrden circle around the noonwraith before it’d taken his arm off. He dispatched it in a blind panic, misstepping and tumbling down a small hill he hadn’t noticed before. The wraith leeched out of existence with a final, mournful yell; the silence that followed was a blessing. Geralt grunted and lay his head down on the field. Footsteps approached, clumsy and almost taking the hill the same way Geralt did. Jaskier.

“Geralt? Geralt are...you’re not dead, are you?” Jaskier called, worry in his tone. Geralt groaned and sat up. There was a moment of silence from the bard, before he burst out into delighted giggles.

“ _Kw’elaine eseith ein llan blathana! T’eip es enid ein te rhuusha, na t’eip jaskier_!” [8]

Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s lyrical rambling, getting to his feet. He allowed the bard to pick pieces of flowers and grass out of his hair, but he swatted his hand away the moment he tried to smooth it down over his head.

“Enough. We need to make sure it’s gone.” Geralt knew the wraith was vanquished, but he needed a reason to get away from the bard and his gentle touches. He never let anyone touch him, lest he gave them coin or was tired of having all their limbs intact.

The walk back to the village was spent in the way they regularly walked: Jaskier waxing poetic about Geralt’s heroic victory, and Geralt trying to ignore him.

“I do suppose I’ll have to wait til the next town to sing about the Ghostwife of Dol Blathanna, wouldn’t want to upset anyone here singing about how the great Geralt of Rivia vanquished the fell beast and was so bored with the battle he took a nap in a bed of flowers just after!”

“You better leave the part out about the flowers, bard.” Geralt grumbled, knowing his threats fell on deaf ears.

“Okay, _hen arse_.” [9]

Geralt knew when he was being cursed at, but it was best to just let the bard exhaust himself while talking. He was already making a map to the next village; towns like this didn’t like for Witchers to linger after said Witcher had to re-kill their loved ones. When Geralt explained this to Jaskier, the man was appalled.

“You did them a great service! They should be showing their thanks, not their doors!”

“It’s the job, Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled. “I’m not exactly concerned with my public image unless it gets me more coin.”

“Well good thing I’m here. If you’re not going to clean up how people think of you, then I alone must bear this task.” His voice was too solemn and put-upon for Geralt not to laugh. Which Geralt didn’t do. Because he coughed. Obviously.

Within Dol Blathanna proper, the city folk were more accepting of the strange man from Kaer Morhen, and his bard. Life went on much in the way things had the last few weeks, with Jaskier spinning truth-adjacent yarns to any tavern that would listen, and Geralt looming in the back for most of his set. He was loathe to admit that Jaskier’s plan was working.

And through it all, Jaskier still kept riffing his songs in the Elder Speech, never explaining the lyrics. Geralt never asked, to be fair.

In the cities, he’d speak in the Common Speech, but alone on the Path, under the stars and next to a fire, Jaskier would croon to Geralt in such a way his face would flush, and not from the fire.

* * *

It was in one of these outdoors trips that they heard about the kikimora nest. They’d been through several contracts together by then, almost on the road for seven months by that point. Jaskier still could hardly hold a dagger with the pointed end away from him, and kept speaking as though Geralt were actually listening. Which he wasn’t. Obviously.

Anyway, it was spring and that meant monsters were usually out and about, ready to kill, fuck, and sometimes both. Thanks to the incessant howls carried on the wind, Geralt and Jaskier found their way up the mountain with general ease. Jaskier is no help in a fight, and Geralt knew the bard would get himself killed if he was anywhere near the nest. Jaskier, however, did not want to stay in the inn.

“They were so rude to me when I played last night!” he complained.

“Probably because they just wanted one of us to do our job. I’m telling you, you’d be safer in the inn.” Geralt repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

“And _I’m_ telling _you_ that I can’t possibly _do_ my job right when you’re just sitting there all, ‘oh, look at me, I’m gonna go kill a thousand kikimora and just say it was three!’ Do you know how hard it is to squeeze details out of you? Easier to squeeze blood from stone.” The bard huffed as he clambered over some tree roots.

“Are you done?” Geralt asked, weary.

“Fine, I’ll stay a respectable distance away.” Jaskier ceded. “But,” _And there it was._ “You need to talk to me for more than three seconds about what happens.”

Geralt hated the prospect of being open with just about anybody, but for some reason this felt—

“Fine.” Geralt grumbled. “Alright. Stay at this tree. Don’t play your lute. Don’t talk to yourself. Stay out of trouble. Swear it, Jaskier.”

“ _Zveire a the, ein me kern. Agh en kain ava en ein vol evelhuig, a vela te aig hauth., kw’ein me kern, zveire a minegeas ein the._ ” [10]

Geralt felt frustration rising in his chest, but Jaskier had clasped a hand over his heart and was proclaiming whatever he was saying to the treetops, so Geralt left him there without another word.

From himself, at least.

“ _Va feill, vatt’ghern._ ” [11]

The fight was nasty. Geralt had managed to catch the kikimora nest after a disgusting monster orgy, so they were all left rather unprotected and asleep. He’d only managed to dispatch a handful before the rest of the group exited the mountain cave the local miners were denied access to.

Geralt swore up and down he’d never take down another kikimora nest in his life.

_And yet, here we are…_

Jaskier’s words, a different context, a different place. Geralt was distracted long enough that he didn’t see the large monster sneak up behind him and—

There was a mighty roar that shook the trees in the forest. Silence, dead silence, followed after it. Jaskier shot to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. His mind jumped to every possible outcome, most of them ending with Geralt dead and dying and weeping at the lost chance to tell Jaskier how much he loved his songs.

What would Jaskier _do_ if Geralt didn’t make it out alive from one of these hunts? Would his heart still beat? Would his life still hold light and color? Would music still sound as sweet?

The roar still echoed in the trees. Jaskier could feel a lump rising in his throat with every passing moment. His eyes scanned the trees as best they could, but night was falling fast, and he was starting to shiver. Could he even start a fire, make camp in his distraught state?

Then.

A snap in the dark. Jaskier’s eyes strained as he whirled around. His voice gave out just after he called, “Geralt?”

The answering grunt was followed by the man limping out of the trees toward Jaskier, who was fully weeping from relief. He ran to the witcher, supporting him under his arm.

“ _A’beith a tir faoi a the, yne cisten’ek orchuddyk ein ikeir._ ” [12]

“Jaskier. You stayed.” Geralt rasped. He sounded surprised, damn him. He could blame it on the injury to his knee, but he knew it was the bleeding relief falling from Jaskier’s lips when he’d spilled his Elder words.

“Of course I bloody stayed, you brute! What makes you think I’d ever leave?”

* * *

It’s summer. The heat was oppressive, even under the thick crown the trees had grown above them. Geralt growled as Jaskier simply looked at the arrow in his shoulder.

“Quiet.” Jaskier snapped. He was trying to patch up the slash across Geralt’s belly. The wyvern had been nasty, and the blasted hunters that had _insisted_ on accompanying Geralt to the beast’s nest had only exacerbated the issue. The wyvern had killed three of them before they’d had the chance to react. Jaskier, the stupid man, had “tried to help” by approaching the one man with a bow, dying as he was on the ground. The frightened hunter had loosed an arrow right at it.

And Geralt, for whatever reason, had dived in front of the arrow’s path and took the arrow almost straight through his shoulder. The wyvern was long dead by then, but Geralt was still getting hurt.

And Jaskier, for some reason, was angry with him.

“ _Sala ein te bloed arse, yne Keirm t’eim abitant het. N’te va!_ ” [13] Geralt had been struggling in his seat in front of Jaskier. Whenever Jaskier spoke in Elder, it did something to his body, made him restless. “It’s not like I can sit still, I took a fucking potion, Jaskier.” he snapped back.

“Well, that’s your own fault. I’ve seen you take down twice the amount of wyverns without doing anything as stupid as getting an arrow in your shoulder.”

“An arrow you would’ve taken to your head.” Geralt pointed out.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Jaskier says, the edge melting off of his tone. He had already removed the arrow from his shoulder, but it was still oozing blood and needed to be stitched up before it could be bandaged. Jaskier’s grasp on basic healing concepts had spiked in recent years, since he saw the slipshod way Geralt was taking care of himself. That had been a month-long fight that Jaskier had ultimately won.

“And just let you die?” Geralt grunted, shifting just to piss off the bard behind him. “How would I sleep at night without your inane babble to lull me to sleep?”

" _Theis eip, Geralt._ " [14]

“Ah, but I know that one now. How come you’re allowed to tell me to shut up but you act so offended when I do it to you?” Geralt muttered to take his mind off the feeling of Jaskier’s nimble fingers sewing him back up again. It was distracting, and made his mind wander inappropriate places. That on top of his sniping tone when he spoke in Elder made for a dangerous mix of arousing thoughts.

“So loquacious, Geralt, maybe I should let you take another arrow for me when you feel like slipping back into your regular dialogue as a stone.” Jaskier leaned down, breath brushing against the back of Geralt’s shoulder, to bite off the end of the stitches. For a moment, his lips brushed Geralt’s skin, and he gasped in a breath at the sensation. He managed to cover it up with a cough, moving away as quickly as possible. Jaskier didn’t need to know his selfish wants.

“It’s a shame there’s just one bed back at the inn.” Geralt muttered, packing up his gear and tugging his shirt jerkily over his head and shoulders. That wound would smart for several days, he knew.

“I’m taking the floor, no worries.” Jaskier said, resigned as he packed up his own things. Geralt tied the wyvern’s head to Roach’s saddle.

“You know…” Geralt felt his mouth moving, thoughts of his heart bypassing those of his mind. “We could always share the bed.”

There’s a stiff beat between them, before Jaskier stifled a cough and looked at his feet. A bitter smile befell his lips like a heavy raincloud over the sun.

“ _Yn drelk ein me bedd es me mearbhall, yne na me keirm_.” [15]

“I don’t know what that means, Jaskier.” Geralt hadn’t moved from his stance across the small clearing they’d rested in.

“Nothing.” Jaskier shook his head. “I’m taking the floor, you’re injured.”

“It’s not that bad.” Geralt protested.

“ _Theis eip, minne_.” [16]

* * *

It’s autumn. Leaves crunched beneath their feet where their boots have tread, and the moon was brighter when they laid their heads down for the night. Sunrise was always a sluggish, lazy affair, and Geralt did not mind the shortening of the days. Jaskier, however, minded how the rivers were always colder than in the spring and summer months, despite the fact that Jaskier must have gotten used to the entire thing, having lived twenty-odd years on the Continent. Geralt was another story; winters in Kaer Morhen were brutal but protected from danger, Jaskier must have only experienced the brutal coastal winds in Novigrad and snowy winters in Oxenfurt. He was dressed in silks and other fine fabrics, unprepared for any degree of discomfort.

That wasn’t the reason Geralt had given him a blanket he’d bought on his travels. Obviously.

 _The bard would be warmer if he shared body heat with another,_ the Witcher thought against his own will, from time to time. He usually shook the thought off, but ended up falling asleep to the imagined sensation of having the bard curled up beneath him, safe and shielded from the world.

What a distracting man.

Jaskier had taken to rising at dawn, as Geralt had always done. This morning in particular was a slow and peaceful one, where their purses were full of coin, but they chose to spend the night outdoors, among the trees and stars, and feel the sunrise as the wild did.

Geralt sat up as he always did, surveying the campsite with focused intensity, looking for anything out of place or disturbed that may have happened in the night. Finding nothing, he sighed and sat back, resting on his elbows and looking up at the sky.

Jaskier had his eyes open the moment the Witcher had sat up. His own blue eyes observed as gold surveyed the area around them. Jaskier felt protected and safe as always. It wasn’t hard for him to feel completely in love with the Witcher. He was a man that knew no country, bowed to no king, and knew no laws but those of nature, fighting anything that went against those laws. Geralt sought to cure the cursed, protect the unprotected, and keep safe a world that did not accept him. Jaskier was good at hiding those parts of himself

However.

When the sun rose that fateful morning, rising up above the horizon and between the trees, Jaskier could hardly breathe as it framed Geralt’s face in a blazing halo, rays fanning out from him as if he were the very sun itself. It was an image that Jaskier would remember for a lifetime, and every lifetime after. The words left his mouth before he could halt his lips.

“ _Na glosse feainnardee kwe zol eveignen ke the._ ” [17]

Geralt was surprised by Jaskier’s morning greeting. Most of the time, he awoke with a groan and a thousand complaints on his tongue. This reverent, almost awed tone caught Geralt off guard. “Didn’t know you could speak Elder this early in the morning.” Geralt quipped. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat at the rasp in his throat.

Jaskier only laughed. “I can say many things when under the right amount of pressure. I speak the truth in a language foreign to most, for I only speak in lies when everyone can understand.” he turned his head away.

“I knew that.” Geralt says, sharing a long, silent look with Jaskier before looking toward the treeline. “We have a ways to go before the next town. Better get those songs ready, bard.” Geralt rose, finally, and started packing up the campsite, cornflower blue eyes raking over his body with hands that could never touch.

Jaskier hummed to himself, some sad and dissonant tune that Geralt longed to hear the words to. Finally, finally, Jaskier sang, once their feet were on the road again.

“ _Evelhuig vat vort, esei ein muire pelysyk. Eif iste adem. Eif iste evelhuig_.” [18]

“ _Pelysyk_. What does that mean?” Geralt asked, atop Roach.

Jaskier took awhile before answering. “Stormy.” he muttered, knowing the Witcher could hear him. It took another hour of humming and strumming before Jaskier found his voice again and sang aloud.

“ _Feldone me aig a’beithe a the...yne...me mine esei me shindrem. Te kern esei kaer, zol kaershyn._ ” [19]

Geralt tried not to hear the sorrow in Jaskier’s voice, but his continued singing only made the emotions flow.

“ _Kaelme me kern, Keirm. Ire lokke, ire tedd, en’ca minne. Va’esse deireadh eip eigran, yne va’esse eigh faidh’ar._ ” [20]

“Jaskier, why so sad?” Geralt asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. The forest was still waking up, too much dawn for sadness.

Jaskier laughed. “No sadness. Just a story I’d like to put words to.”

It wasn’t a sufficient explanation, but Geralt figured Jaskier would give no other answers. He continued to sing as they walked into the sun, voice sometimes broken on a word or two, but Geralt stubbornly wrote it off as just the morning not agreeing with Jaskier’s vocal chords.

“ _Thenveid a the es a kaemm vite, kain raidde, kain raidde, kain raidde, ein ted me lotheith, aine me vite_.” [21]

The air sparked as if bewitched. The air seemed crisper. Geralt’s chest seemed to breathe heavier with each inhale. There seemed a magic in the air, though no sorcerer or mage was about. Geralt got that heavy feeling where he felt as if though he were the sudden subject of Jaskier’s ballad.

“You know…” Geralt’s voice was calm, as it was when he was first approaching Roach, many years ago. “You will probably run out of things to sing about if you keep waking and chirping as you do.” It was not a request, it was not a plea, it was a lonely man fighting the affections in his heart. A solitary stone resisting being built into a home.

“ _Agh kain sheint ein the irhuig ui irhuig, eip’a vhooel tedd_.” [22]

* * *

It’s winter, dead winter. Which means Jaskier has started his yearly tradition of holing up in a well-stocked tavern until the snow thaws, getting drunk at least five times a week to deal with, what Geralt considers, being his own company for so long. Geralt had his hands full taking down a nasty nest of ghouls, so he wouldn’t be privy to most of Jaskier’s...activities, but he’d hear about them well after. However, rather than a conversation, he just wanted a damn drink. Pockets full of coin from the shaking, grateful alderman, he was ready to spend most of it on draining this small town dry.

Jaskier was well into his third or fourth ale by the time Geralt opened the door. Some townies grumbled in his direction at the sudden burst of cold in the stifling tavern. Geralt shrugged and took a seat in a dark corner, as usual. He flipped a coin to the barmaid who set down a pint in front of him. It was watery, but Geralt knew that enough rounds would dull the edge of his aching bones.

And Jaskier, it seemed, was a whetstone that would just sharpen his edge back up again.

The bard in question was playing a lute that was slightly out of tune, singing less in words and more of guttural vocalizations that gave the _idea_ of words. Fourth ale, then. As soon as he caught his hazy sight on Geralt, he ambled over, another ale in hand. Rather than taking the customary seat across from the witcher, Jaskier has taken to falling at Geralt’s side, leaning up against his shoulder like the armor there was actually comfortable. Jaskier brushed off a bit of powdery snow from his shoulder that hadn’t melted just yet.

“ _Elaine tedd a’teghaine, hmm?_ ” [23]

“You know I don’t have any clue what you’re saying right?” Geralt burred, giving the bard one of his small, rare smiles.

“S’why I speak like this. Now you get to know what everyone else feels when you go ‘hmm’.” Jaskier’s voice was a pale imitation of Geralt’s preferred answer to a question he’d rather not think on.

“Hmm.” Geralt smirked, steadying the smaller man as he made to fall straight into Geralt’s lap. “You’re very drunk, Jaskier.” The bard whined.

“ _N’te zol varh’he_.” [24]

“I may not know what you’re saying, but I can tell it’s nothing nice. Usually by the time you start saying mean things, that means you’re done drinking for the night.” Geralt started to hoist Jaskier up into his arms, dropping a silver coin on the table. Their shared room was thankfully close by the tavern, and Geralt hoped the stark temperature change would sober Jaskier up a bit.

“So many words for a man who values solitude!” Jaskier gasped, delighted. His hands were hanging on Geralt’s arms distractingly. “ _The phelbainne me kern._ ” [25]

“Don’t count on it happening often.” Geralt chuckled, removing his coat to wrap around the bard’s shoulders as they traveled back to the inn. 

“ _Aa, eisparte me en me kern, adem_!” [26]

“Quiet, Jaskier.”

 _"Quiet, Jaskier._ ” the bard mocked back, childish. Geralt scooped him up in his arms again as they crunched through the snow. “Ooh, I love a dance!” Jaskier exclaimed, breath hot on Geralt’s neck. He swore he could feel Jaskier’s lips just upon his skin.

“This is not a dance, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted, swinging him up the stairs to the inn, which he could feel heat blessedly radiating from. Jaskier sighed, a pretty noise that lit up every bone in Geralt’s body like a wildfire.

“ _Ein ted agh a’dan ein the, me kern kain en threises velöshyn. Kein me a’beithe?_ ” [27]

Geralt’s shoulders were up around his reddening ears by now. He understood that Jaskier was very good at convincing his way into many a warm bed, but suddenly having all of that attention turned on him admittedly made his knees weak.

“C’mon Jaskier, work with me here.” Geralt pleaded, yanking him up the steps with great difficulty, hiding his arousal as best he could. He had to pin Jaskier up against the wall to keep him from listing this way or that while he fished out the key to their room.

“ _T’eip ruadile ein a’beithe te, e’na the me einruadilet_?” [28]

The breathy way in which he said it sounded like a prayer, a curse, and a spell all at once. He knew Jaskier was just a horny drunk, but damn it, Geralt was drunk on Jaskier right back. Geralt used the palm of his hand to push the bard’s head back against the wall from where it was lolling forward dangerously. Geralt finally got the damned door open and they fell in. “You’re not going to like yourself very much when you wake up.” He grunted, tossing Jaskier bodily down on the bed. Jaskier wheezed a delighted laugh.

“ _Ein ted the wettet yn te n’bed, the garer ur a me, vatt’ghern_.” [29]

Geralt knew he was saying something undeniably lust-filled about the witcher, since Jaskier had imparted that _vatt’ghern_ was the Hen Linge word for witcher. It made him prick up his ears more often, now that he knew when he was being spoken about. Or sang about.

“Sleep, Jaskier. Don’t make me knock you out myself.” Geralt had meant for his tone to be commanding, but it came out calm, soft, gentle, all the things Jaskier had tricked him into being at times like this, where Jaskier wouldn’t remember what he was saying or doing in the morning. He let his hand fall softly on Jaskier’s forehead, smoothing back some of his hair, dampened from where melted snow had fallen upon it. The bard snuffed a little, pressing his face into Geralt’s hand, seeking warmth and comfort.

And who was Geralt to deny him now?

* * *

“You’re so bloody stupid, Geralt!” Jaskier yelled across the room at him. They were back at the inn, after Geralt had to bodily drag Jaskier away from a fight. A fight that was over, surprisingly, Geralt’s honor. “I could handle myself!”

“That doesn’t mean you go seeking trouble wherever it taunts you, bard!” Geralt shouted, but he was not unkind. He was angry, _furious_ , but there’s an underlying sense of worry there, of hurt. “You shouldn’t react that way when people say what they will. It has been happening for hundreds of years, to every Witcher that ever lived.”

“Not every Witcher has a fucking _one-man press team_ , Geralt! When someone wants to drag your name through the mud, mine goes right alongside it!” Geralt barked out a dry laugh.

“Always looking out for your own image, is that right. It’d save you a lot of heartbreak if you cast your name away from mine.” They both paced on either side of the room, caged animals held apart.

It’s Jaskier’s turn for a bitter laugh of his own. “That’s about as fruitless of an effort as tossing driftwood from the shore. Have you considered possibly that I fucking enjoy being here and on adventures with you? Have you considered that I—”

Jaskier cut himself off, suddenly looking terrified and flighty, like he’d said something he didn’t mean to say. Geralt could smell the apprehension and fear radiating off of Jaskier, and his anger dissipated along with his tone.

“Jaskier.” His voice was rough, and he took a step forward. “What is it?” A reaction from his bard this intense frightened him to his core. Jaskier still wouldn’t look up at him, shame filling his expression.

“It’s nothing, Geralt, I. I’m supposed to be mad at you.” he tries valiantly, but the deflated posture in his shoulders gave him away. “I wish. The people that say such awful things. I wish I could fight them all for you. You protect me from monsters, I just want to do the same for you.”

Their eyes meet across the short distance. Jaskier looks downright terrified. For a man so used to baring his feelings to rooms of strangers, he gives off the strange impression that he’d said too much. Geralt’s hand rises of its own accord to gently sweep away a lock of hair that had fallen across Jaskier’s face. Geralt can hear how his heart skips a beat, his breathing stutters, and can see the minute flutter of his lashes. Jaskier leans into his hand, desperately trying to convey what he was trying to say. He pressed a small kiss to Geralt’s warm palm before meeting his eyes again.

“ _Agh mein the_.” [30]

Geralt surged forward to press their lips together. They’d both expected their first kiss to be hot, rough, and full of lust. They weren’t exactly wrong, but the heat was a burning flame that lit them up like a witch at the stake, the roughness was not violent, but weakened them, at the knees, behind their ribs, and eased the lump in their throats. The lust, however.

That was there in spades.

Their hands flailed to grab handfuls of the other, desperate and needy and itching with want. Jaskier let out a gasp as Geralt’s teeth sunk into his lower lip. His hips jerked forward into Geralt’s, who loosed a growl from deep in his chest. Jaskier was smiling, then, familiar with the sound more than his own name. Geralt was holding onto him, looking into his fucking _soul_ with so much intensity Jaskier forgot how to breathe. “Take me to bed, witcher.” Jaskier rasped, sucking on his throbbing lower lip in a way he knew distracted the man above him.

All at once, his body was scooped up into arms as thick as trees, as strong as iron bars, and _oh, what a prison to serve a sentence within._

“Geralt…” Jaskier moaned as his back hit the bed. Geralt climbed atop him, all lithe moves like a predatory creature. Jaskier had dreamt of this monster in his bed for countless nights, but this turned his world on its head. Geralt pressed him into the sheets, pinning his wrists by his head and kissing his way down Jaskier’s jaw and neck. The bard squirmed and writhed underneath the witcher, prey to his whims.

Geralt took his time laying kisses on every inch of skin he could get to, before Jaskier chimed in with an impatient whine. “ _Ategan, gwynbleidd_?” [31]

With a smirk, Geralt sat back on his heels, deftly undoing the complicated straps and buttons and ties that held Jaskier’s clothes on his body. It felt unfair that Jaskier had to hide his body like this all the time. If Geralt had his way, Jaskier would walk around wearing nothing whenever they were alone. Jaskier was straining at the front of his breeches, which Geralt took care of, along with his shoes. “Any other requests?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s hand came away from where it had been pinned against the mattress by his head. He looked thoughtful for a moment before palming his erection through his breeches.

“Mmm... _Dhaeniis the sapin_.” [32]

There was no time to ask what that meant, but Geralt could gather from context what his bard wanted. Geralt ground their erections together, the friction and heat driving Geralt’s senses wild. Jaskier was making such _pretty_ noises for him, right into his mouth, feeding him his want and need.

Geralt knew this first encounter was a long time coming, and they wouldn’t be able to last very long. He grunted and breathed hotly in Jaskier’s ear. “Not gonna last with you squirming under me like that.” Jaskier could only answer in a hot, formless moan, borne of desperate pleasure.

“More, more…” he panted. Geralt obliged, shoving their breeches down enough to free their cocks. Geralt smeared their precum along their shafts, taking both in one of his massive hands. Jaskier looked like a man possessed, writhing towards him. Geralt pumped their cocks in time, his hand a firm grip that had Jaskier falling apart. The bard gave a whine.

“ _Enhet, enhet_ …” [33]

Geralt knew they were both close. He panted, rising up on an elbow to look at Jaskier beneath him. “I love you.” Geralt growled. Jaskier’s eyes shot open, two seas looking up at twin suns. Jaskier was trying to speak, but could only open and close his mouth desperately, before he gasped in a rough breath and his back arched off the bed.

“Geralt—!” he cried, spilling all over Geralt’s hand, his cock, and his own belly. His body trembled, and he keened out a soft, lyrical moan. That noise carved its notes into Geralt’s skull as he spent as well, their seed mixing on Jaskier’s hot skin.

They caught their breaths, Geralt not daring to move even a fraction of an inch away from his bard, his Jaskier. Several glowy, sluggish minutes passed between them, neither moving. Suddenly, Jaskier gave a happy laugh and leaned over to kiss Geralt again. His face was brimming with happiness, eyes nearly shedding tears in his delight. Geralt returned the kisses as best he could before Jaskier pulled back.

“ _Anhaelsh me shainte_!” [34]

Geralt gave a full, genuine smile to his bard, letting him express his love and joy. It was a gift, one he never intended to release. “You’ll have to teach me all those nasty things you’ve been teasing me with the last few years now, you realize?” Geralt’s hand stroked lazily through Jaskier’s hair. It was matted down with sweat in some areas.

“Never.” Jaskier teased, kissing the witcher’s nose affectionately. Geralt considered him a moment before leaning in and whispering against Jaskier’s ear.

“ _En’ca minne, kein me a’beithe_?” [35]

* * *

**TRANSLATION INDEX**

* * *

  1. Ah, got it, thanks so much. [return]
  2. A spell bewitched me when I looked upon the White Wolf… [return]
  3. Little love, will you give me a kiss? Ah, to be that horse beneath you… [return]
  4. It’s the worst fear of a bard, a broken heart. This is the song on the wind of my heart. Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Am I wrong to see your beauty…? Calm down, witcher. [return]
  5. Ah, don’t extinguish the flame in my heart, witcher. [return]
  6. Okay, my tongue is held. [return]
  7. How pretty you look among the flowers! I want to be a daisy in your hair, not a buttercup! [return]
  8. Okay, old ass. [return]
  9. I swear to you, upon my heart, that I would come from death a hundred times, but to see your face once more. By my heart, I swear a love’s oath upon you. [return]
  10. Farewell, witcher. [return]
  11. I’d kiss the ground you stood on, but your boots are covered in blood. [return]
  12. I pray for your stupid ass, but Destiny bites it instead. Stop! [return]
  13. Shut up, Geralt. [return]
  14. A monster in my bed is my passion, but not my destiny. [return]
  15. Shut up, my love. [return]
  16. I’ve never seen a sunrise as beautiful as you. [return]
  17. Everytime you leave, I’m in a stormy sea. I miss you already. I miss you always. [return]
  18. I’d give away my face to kiss you...but...my love is my secret. Your heart is a fortress, the most fortified. [return]
  19. Calm my heart, Destiny. Another place, another time, my love. Something ends, something begins. [return]
  20. To follow you is to know life, I’d run, I’d run, I’d run, if you would only call to me, light of my life. [return]
  21. I can sing about you until the end of time. [return]
  22. Lovely weather we’re having, hmm? [return]
  23. Don’t be such a bitch. [return]
  24. You've stolen my heart. [return]
  25. Ah, shoot me in the heart already! [return]
  26. If I could dance with you, my heart would beat the fastest. Give me a kiss? [return]
  27. Should I redden my lips so you’ll kiss me, or will you just redden them yourself? [return]
  28. If you wanted me in your bed so badly, you could have asked me, witcher. [return]
  29. I love you. [return]
  30. Today, White Wolf? [return]
  31. Mmm...I need your cock. [return]
  32. Like that, like that… [return]
  33. You make me sing! [return]
  34. Little love, give me a kiss? [return]




	2. In-text translation version

The first time it happened, Geralt hardly knew the obnoxious bard’s name. Geralt was more concerned with not pissing off the Elves enough to get himself out of this situation, when the bard suddenly spat out, “ _Aa, es me kempte, me zol grasha._ ” [Ah, got it, thanks so much]

It caught him off-guard in the way that humans tended to do once every decade or so. The way the words had rolled, tremulous and rich, off of the bard’s tongue sent a shock up Geralt’s spine. Unfortunately, the moment had no time for introspection, as the witcher soon had a blade aimed at his throat and all eyes on them.

It was more of a surprise, then, that Geralt didn’t instantly banish Jaskier (because that was his name, Jaskier) from his presence the moment they were free of their bonds and on the road again. He had no path in mind save for the Path, and Geralt didn’t think having some entertainment would be too bad. He had little experience with traveling in the company of others, much less a common bard.

Jaskier, however, did not know when to shut the hell up.

Gerealt learned many things. The quip about the bard being rusty at Elder Speech didn’t seem to stop the man from speaking as much as he could remember at any given moment. Geralt never learned Elder, so he appreciated not being able to understand the bard for several long minutes a day.

“ _Me peikhil er’vela Gwynbleidd…_ ” [A spell bewitched me when I looked upon the White Wolf…]

Jaskier was obviously trying to write a song with his limited vocabulary. He kept coming back to that same line, though, the syllables dripping off his tongue like honey. No wonder Elder was the language of magic. “You know, I don’t think the Elves or Dryads would appreciate you singing about mutants killing non-human beasts in the Northern Kingdoms.” Geralt said, adjusting his grip on Roach’s reins but not turning to look at Jaskier.

“Some songs, my interesting and adventurous friend, are not for the ears of others but myself. And well, you, I suppose.” he seemed so nonchalant about it. Geralt felt like he gave a satisfying enough answer. Jaskier’s Elder verses only grew...more creative...as time went on, walking the paths together.

“ _En’ca minne, kain me a’beithe? Aa, ein ted esei evall ys the…_ ” [Little love, will you give me a kiss? Ah, to be that horse beneath you…]

Jaskier broke into a fit of giggles, which Geralt obviously did _not_ find charming as hell. Obviously. Roach gave a little nicker at the line, as if she knew what he was saying. He continued to play, strums of his lute interrupted with stifled laughter. He changed the line a few hours later, when they had made camp for the night. It sounded sadder, now.

“ _Het esse teiw zol tearth, paerthe kern. Het esse sheinte ein gwynt ein me kern. Nell’ea? Nell’ea? Nell’ea te vel’elaine…?_ ” [It’s the worst fear of a bard, a broken heart. This is the song on the wind of my heart. Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Am I wrong to see your beauty…?]

Geralt said nothing, looking away when Jaskier seemed to find a hitch in his breath as their eyes locked across the campfire. His hands faltered on an arpeggio, and the moment dissipated like the mist.

“Gwent.” Geralt said, awkwardly, suddenly. Jaskier shifted uncomfortably.

“What?” the bard asked, nearly half asleep and tired from the day’s trek.

“You said gwent. Like the game.” Geralt explained. “Are you singing about cards?”

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “No. I said _gwynt_ , which means wind, gale, breeze, could mean breath in some contexts. One could be derived from the other, since gwent is so fast-paced.” he seemed to relax again against his bedroll, looking up at the stars. “I thought someone who’s been on the Continent as long as you would know _some_ Elder. Especially if you’ve been to Skellige.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, not too pleased with being reminded of his relative age to the bard’s own. Jaskier chuckled at his non-answer.

“ _Keilme, vatt’ghern._ ” [Calm down, witcher.]

* * *

The next day, Jaskier was a little more subdued. Geralt knew the man probably never had a hard day of work in his life, and life on the Path wasn’t one of idle comforts. Inns and villages were few and far between, moreso when humans didn’t take to Geralt’s kind with more or less open arms. However, his (begrudgingly admitted) companion seemed keen to change the tune of the wind at Geralt’s back from one of infamy to heroism. He’d only seen how Geralt handled the Elves and the sylvan, and was eager for more action.

They finally came upon a town on the outskirts of Dol Blathanna. Jaskier’s pace sped up, and he shouted behind him to take his time getting in. Geralt was more than willing to make camp at the edge of town, in the forest where humans wouldn’t gawk at him.

An hour later, he heard Jaskier skipping down the lane, humming happily to himself. Geralt emerged from the treeline to signal his location to the bard. “Geralt! Hope you haven’t set up camp already. Got us a room at the inn, and uh, these?” Jaskier reached into a pocket and pulled out several scraps of paper, most likely pulled from the town announcement board. One clearly requested the services of a Witcher. “What’s it called when a woman is killed on her wedding day and haunts where she was killed?”

Geralt snatched the papers from Jaskier. “Noonwraith. Who did you get these from?”

“I’ll have you know, they were given to me rather abruptly. Thrust into my hand the moment I finished singing my new song.” Jaskier fixed him with a smug, lopsided smile that obviously didn’t upend gravity as Geralt knew it. Obviously. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Aa, n’te einmuren eiyne yn me kern, vatt’ghern_.” [Ah, don’t extinguish the flame in my heart, witcher.]

Geralt ignored what he was sure was some snarky quip in Elder, and took Roach by the reins. “Is there a stable in town?”

Jaskier babbled the entire way into town, describing in excruciating detail how he bewitched the crowd into their generous state. He talked while Geralt stabled Roach, he talked while they got some food and supplies, he talked while they went to the alderman to get more details on the noonwraith.

“You’re going to have to be quiet if we’re hunting a noonwraith tomorrow.” Geralt snipped at him as they walked back to the inn they were being boarded at.

“Okay, _me linge grethilen_.” [Okay, my tongue is held.]

Jaskier was quiet the next morning as they trekked out to the field the noonwraith most likely haunted.

The story was this: a girl named Yulia was meant to be wed to a boy named Jan. Jan skipped town on the morning of their wedding, and Yulia killed herself in the field they first met. A horrible gale had swept into town that day, and most of Yulia’s wedding garb had blown about the field, caught on stakes in the ground, thorned flower patches, and generally made Geralt’s job a lot fucking harder.

“You can’t just tell me a story like that!” Jaskier exclaimed.

“It’s what happened, bard. Men leave women when they want commitment, unless they’re smart enough to not create a fucking monster in their wake.”

“That happen to you much?” Jaskier prodded, hands touching the flowers around them excitedly. He’d left his beloved lute in the inn room, unsure of what fighting a noonwraith would entail. “I said it before, you smell of heartbreak, and - oh, how pretty!” Jaskier was bending at the waist suddenly, hand reaching out for a scrap of gauzy ivory fabric just off the path.

“Jaskier, no!” Geralt bellowed, but it was too late. In a flash of light and broken shrieks, a deformed, willowy creature pulled itself from the ground, flowers hanging off its grotesque head and stringy hair. Jaskier stumbled back in fright, hands still clutching at the fabric - a veil, most likely. He turned his head toward the witcher before darting away from the danger.

“Geralt…!” Jaskier warbled, hiding behind the witcher.

“Give me that.” Geralt snatched the veil from the bard’s trembling hands. “Get out of the field.” Geralt unsheathed his silver blade and ignited the veil in his hands with Igni. The wraith let out a mournful shriek again, rage focused on the man before her.

Once Jaskier was a safe distance away, Geralt slipped into a fighting stance, luring its uncontrolled swipes toward the open center of the field. “Come on!” he shouted at it, taunting it so it’d attack and leave itself vulnerable.

The attack took longer than expected, with Geralt barely managing to throw up an Yrden circle around the noonwraith before it’d taken his arm off. He dispatched it in a blind panic, misstepping and tumbling down a small hill he hadn’t noticed before. The wraith leeched out of existence with a final, mournful yell; the silence that followed was a blessing. Geralt grunted and lay his head down on the field. Footsteps approached, clumsy and almost taking the hill the same way Geralt did. Jaskier.

“Geralt? Geralt are...you’re not dead, are you?” Jaskier called, worry in his tone. Geralt groaned and sat up. There was a moment of silence from the bard, before he burst out into delighted giggles.

“ _Kw’elaine eseith ein llan blathana! T’eip es enid ein te rhuusha, na t’eip jaskier_!” [How pretty you look among the flowers! I want to be a daisy in your hair, not a buttercup!]

Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s lyrical rambling, getting to his feet. He allowed the bard to pick pieces of flowers and grass out of his hair, but he swatted his hand away the moment he tried to smooth it down over his head.

“Enough. We need to make sure it’s gone.” Geralt knew the wraith was vanquished, but he needed a reason to get away from the bard and his gentle touches. He never let anyone touch him, lest he gave them coin or was tired of having all their limbs intact.

The walk back to the village was spent in the way they regularly walked: Jaskier waxing poetic about Geralt’s heroic victory, and Geralt trying to ignore him.

“I do suppose I’ll have to wait til the next town to sing about the Ghostwife of Dol Blathanna, wouldn’t want to upset anyone here singing about how the great Geralt of Rivia vanquished the fell beast and was so bored with the battle he took a nap in a bed of flowers just after!”

“You better leave the part out about the flowers, bard.” Geralt grumbled, knowing his threats fell on deaf ears.

“Okay, _hen arse_.” [Okay, old ass.]

Geralt knew he was being cursed at, but it was best to just let the bard exhaust himself while talking. He was already making a map to the next village; towns like this didn’t like for Witchers to linger after said Witcher had to re-kill their loved ones. When Geralt explained this to Jaskier, the man was appalled.

“You did them a great service! They should be showing their thanks, not their doors!”

“It’s the job, Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled. “I’m not exactly concerned with my public image unless it gets me more coin.”

“Well good thing I’m here. If you’re not going to clean up how people think of you, then I alone must bear this task.” His voice was too solemn and put-upon for Geralt not to laugh. Which Geralt didn’t do. Because he coughed. Obviously.

Within Dol Blathanna proper, the city folk were more accepting of the strange man from Kaer Morhen, and his bard. Life went on much in the way things had the last few weeks, with Jaskier spinning truth-adjacent yarns to any tavern that would listen, and Geralt looming in the back for most of his set. He was loathe to admit that Jaskier’s plan was working.

And through it all, Jaskier still kept riffing his songs in the Elder Speech, never explaining the lyrics. Geralt never asked, to be fair.

In the cities, he’d speak in the Common Speech, but alone on the Path, under the stars and next to a fire, Jaskier would croon to Geralt in such a way his face would flush, and not from the fire.

* * *

It was in one of these outdoors trips that they heard about the kikimora nest. They’d been through several contracts together by then, almost on the road for seven months by that point. Jaskier still could hardly hold a dagger with the pointed end away from him, and kept speaking as though Geralt were actually listening. Which he wasn’t. Obviously.

Anyway, it was spring and that meant monsters were usually out and about, ready to kill, fuck, and sometimes both. Thanks to the incessant howls carried on the wind, Geralt and Jaskier found their way up the mountain with general ease. Jaskier is no help in a fight, and Geralt knew the bard would get himself killed if he was anywhere near the nest. Jaskier, however, did not want to stay in the inn.

“They were so rude to me when I played last night!” he complained.

“Probably because they just wanted one of us to do our job. I’m telling you, you’d be safer in the inn.” Geralt repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

“And _I’m_ telling _you_ that I can’t possibly _do_ my job right when you’re just sitting there all, ‘oh, look at me, I’m gonna go kill a thousand kikimora and just say it was three!’ Do you know how hard it is to squeeze details out of you? Easier to squeeze blood from stone.” The bard huffed as he clambered over some tree roots.

“Are you done?” Geralt asked, weary.

“Fine, I’ll stay a respectable distance away.” Jaskier ceded. “But,” _And there it was._ “You need to talk to me for more than three seconds about what happens.”

Geralt hated the prospect of being open with just about anybody, but for some reason this felt—

“Fine.” Geralt grumbled. “Alright. Stay at this tree. Don’t play your lute. Don’t talk to yourself. Stay out of trouble. Swear it, Jaskier.”

“ _Zveire a the, ein me kern. Agh en kain ava en ein vol evelhuig, a vela te aig hauth., kw’ein me kern, zveire a minegeas ein the._ ” [I swear to you, upon my heart, that I would come from death a hundred times, but to see your face once more. By my heart, I swear a love’s oath upon you.]

Geralt felt frustration rising in his chest, but Jaskier had clasped a hand over his heart and was proclaiming whatever he was saying to the treetops, so Geralt left him there without another word.

From himself, at least.

“ _Va feill, vatt’ghern._ ” [Farewell, witcher.]

The fight was nasty. Geralt had managed to catch the kikimora nest after a disgusting monster orgy, so they were all left rather unprotected and asleep. He’d only managed to dispatch a handful before the rest of the group exited the mountain cave the local miners were denied access to.

Geralt swore up and down he’d never take down another kikimora nest in his life.

_And yet, here we are…_

Jaskier’s words, a different context, a different place. Geralt was distracted long enough that he didn’t see the large monster sneak up behind him and—

There was a mighty roar that shook the trees in the forest. Silence, dead silence, followed after it. Jaskier shot to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. His mind jumped to every possible outcome, most of them ending with Geralt dead and dying and weeping at the lost chance to tell Jaskier how much he loved his songs.

What would Jaskier _do_ if Geralt didn’t make it out alive from one of these hunts? Would his heart still beat? Would his life still hold light and color? Would music still sound as sweet?

The roar still echoed in the trees. Jaskier could feel a lump rising in his throat with every passing moment. His eyes scanned the trees as best they could, but night was falling fast, and he was starting to shiver. Could he even start a fire, make camp in his distraught state?

Then.

A snap in the dark. Jaskier’s eyes strained as he whirled around. His voice gave out just after he called, “Geralt?”

The answering grunt was followed by the man limping out of the trees toward Jaskier, who was fully weeping from relief. He ran to the witcher, supporting him under his arm.

“ _A’beith a tir faoi a the, yne cisten’ek orchuddyk ein ikeir._ ” [I’d kiss the ground you stood on, but your boots are covered in blood.]

“Jaskier. You stayed.” Geralt rasped. He sounded surprised, damn him. He could blame it on the injury to his knee, but he knew it was the bleeding relief falling from Jaskier’s lips when he’d spilled his Elder words.

“Of course I bloody stayed, you brute! What makes you think I’d ever leave?”

* * *

It’s summer. The heat was oppressive, even under the thick crown the trees had grown above them. Geralt growled as Jaskier simply looked at the arrow in his shoulder.

“Quiet.” Jaskier snapped. He was trying to patch up the slash across Geralt’s belly. The wyvern had been nasty, and the blasted hunters that had _insisted_ on accompanying Geralt to the beast’s nest had only exacerbated the issue. The wyvern had killed three of them before they’d had the chance to react. Jaskier, the stupid man, had “tried to help” by approaching the one man with a bow, dying as he was on the ground. The frightened hunter had loosed an arrow right at it.

And Geralt, for whatever reason, had dived in front of the arrow’s path and took the arrow almost straight through his shoulder. The wyvern was long dead by then, but Geralt was still getting hurt.

And Jaskier, for some reason, was angry with him.

“ _Sala ein te bloed arse, yne Keirm t’eim abitant het. N’te va!_ ” [I pray for your stupid ass, but Destiny bites it instead. Stop!]

Geralt had been struggling in his seat in front of Jaskier. Whenever Jaskier spoke in Elder, it did something to his body, made him restless. “It’s not like I can sit still, I took a fucking potion, Jaskier.” he snapped back.

“Well, that’s your own fault. I’ve seen you take down twice the amount of wyverns without doing anything as stupid as getting an arrow in your shoulder.”

“An arrow you would’ve taken to your head.” Geralt pointed out.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Jaskier says, the edge melting off of his tone. He had already removed the arrow from his shoulder, but it was still oozing blood and needed to be stitched up before it could be bandaged. Jaskier’s grasp on basic healing concepts had spiked in recent years, since he saw the slipshod way Geralt was taking care of himself. That had been a month-long fight that Jaskier had ultimately won.

“And just let you die?” Geralt grunted, shifting just to piss off the bard behind him. “How would I sleep at night without your inane babble to lull me to sleep?”

“ _Theis eip, Geralt_.” [Shut up, Geralt.]

“Ah, but I know that one now. How come you’re allowed to tell me to shut up but you act so offended when I do it to you?” Geralt muttered to take his mind off the feeling of Jaskier’s nimble fingers sewing him back up again. It was distracting, and made his mind wander inappropriate places. That on top of his sniping tone when he spoke in Elder made for a dangerous mix of arousing thoughts.

“So loquacious, Geralt, maybe I should let you take another arrow for me when you feel like slipping back into your regular dialogue as a stone.” Jaskier leaned down, breath brushing against the back of Geralt’s shoulder, to bite off the end of the stitches. For a moment, his lips brushed Geralt’s skin, and he gasped in a breath at the sensation. He managed to cover it up with a cough, moving away as quickly as possible. Jaskier didn’t need to know his selfish wants.

“It’s a shame there’s just one bed back at the inn.” Geralt muttered, packing up his gear and tugging his shirt jerkily over his head and shoulders. That wound would smart for several days, he knew.

“I’m taking the floor, no worries.” Jaskier said, resigned as he packed up his own things. Geralt tied the wyvern’s head to Roach’s saddle.

“You know…” Geralt felt his mouth moving, thoughts of his heart bypassing those of his mind. “We could always share the bed.”

There’s a stiff beat between them, before Jaskier stifled a cough and looked at his feet. A bitter smile befell his lips like a heavy raincloud over the sun.

“ _Yn drelk ein me bedd es me mearbhall, yne na me keirm_.” [A monster in my bed is my passion, but not my destiny.]

“I don’t know what that means, Jaskier.” Geralt hadn’t moved from his stance across the small clearing they’d rested in.

“Nothing.” Jaskier shook his head. “I’m taking the floor, you’re injured.”

“It’s not that bad.” Geralt protested.

“ _Theis eip, minne_.” [Shut up, my love.]

* * *

It’s autumn. Leaves crunched beneath their feet where their boots have tread, and the moon was brighter when they laid their heads down for the night. Sunrise was always a sluggish, lazy affair, and Geralt did not mind the shortening of the days. Jaskier, however, minded how the rivers were always colder than in the spring and summer months, despite the fact that Jaskier must have gotten used to the entire thing, having lived twenty-odd years on the Continent. Geralt was another story; winters in Kaer Morhen were brutal but protected from danger, Jaskier must have only experienced the brutal coastal winds in Novigrad and snowy winters in Oxenfurt. He was dressed in silks and other fine fabrics, unprepared for any degree of discomfort.

That wasn’t the reason Geralt had given him a blanket he’d bought on his travels. Obviously.

 _The bard would be warmer if he shared body heat with another,_ the Witcher thought against his own will, from time to time. He usually shook the thought off, but ended up falling asleep to the imagined sensation of having the bard curled up beneath him, safe and shielded from the world.

What a distracting man.

Jaskier had taken to rising at dawn, as Geralt had always done. This morning in particular was a slow and peaceful one, where their purses were full of coin, but they chose to spend the night outdoors, among the trees and stars, and feel the sunrise as the wild did.

Geralt sat up as he always did, surveying the campsite with focused intensity, looking for anything out of place or disturbed that may have happened in the night. Finding nothing, he sighed and sat back, resting on his elbows and looking up at the sky.

Jaskier had his eyes open the moment the Witcher had sat up. His own blue eyes observed as gold surveyed the area around them. Jaskier felt protected and safe as always. It wasn’t hard for him to feel completely in love with the Witcher. He was a man that knew no country, bowed to no king, and knew no laws but those of nature, fighting anything that went against those laws. Geralt sought to cure the cursed, protect the unprotected, and keep safe a world that did not accept him. Jaskier was good at hiding those parts of himself

However.

When the sun rose that fateful morning, rising up above the horizon and between the trees, Jaskier could hardly breathe as it framed Geralt’s face in a blazing halo, rays fanning out from him as if he were the very sun itself. It was an image that Jaskier would remember for a lifetime, and every lifetime after. The words left his mouth before he could halt his lips.

“ _Na glosse feainnardee kwe zol eveignen ke the._ ” [I’ve never seen a sunrise as beautiful as you.]

Geralt was surprised by Jaskier’s morning greeting. Most of the time, he awoke with a groan and a thousand complaints on his tongue. This reverent, almost awed tone caught Geralt off guard. “Didn’t know you could speak Elder this early in the morning.” Geralt quipped. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat at the rasp in his throat.

Jaskier only laughed. “I can say many things when under the right amount of pressure. I speak the truth in a language foreign to most, for I only speak in lies when everyone can understand.” he turned his head away.

“I knew that.” Geralt says, sharing a long, silent look with Jaskier before looking toward the treeline. “We have a ways to go before the next town. Better get those songs ready, bard.” Geralt rose, finally, and started packing up the campsite, cornflower blue eyes raking over his body with hands that could never touch.

Jaskier hummed to himself, some sad and dissonant tune that Geralt longed to hear the words to. Finally, finally, Jaskier sang, once their feet were on the road again.

“ _Evelhuig vat vort, esei ein muire pelysyk. Eif iste adem. Eif iste evelhuig_.” [Everytime you leave, I’m in a stormy sea. I miss you already. I miss you always.]

“ _Pelysyk_. What does that mean?” Geralt asked, atop Roach.

Jaskier took awhile before answering. “Stormy.” he muttered, knowing the Witcher could hear him. It took another hour of humming and strumming before Jaskier found his voice again and sang aloud.

“ _Feldone me aig a’beithe a the...yne...me mine esei me shindrem. Te kern esei kaer, zol kaershyn._ ” [I’d give away my face to kiss you...but...my love is my secret. Your heart is a fortress, the most fortified.]

Geralt tried not to hear the sorrow in Jaskier’s voice, but his continued singing only made the emotions flow.

“ _Kaelme me kern, Keirm. Ire lokke, ire tedd, en’ca minne. Va’esse deireadh eip eigran, yne va’esse eigh faidh’ar._ ” [Still my heart, Destiny. Another place, another time, my love. Something ends, something begins.]

“Jaskier, why so sad?” Geralt asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. The forest was still waking up, too much dawn for sadness.

Jaskier laughed. “No sadness. Just a story I’d like to put words to.”

It wasn’t a sufficient explanation, but Geralt figured Jaskier would give no other answers. He continued to sing as they walked into the sun, voice sometimes broken on a word or two, but Geralt stubbornly wrote it off as just the morning not agreeing with Jaskier’s vocal chords.

“ _Thenveid a the es a kaemm vite, kain raidde, kain raidde, kain raidde, ein ted me lotheith, aine me vite_.” [To follow you is to know life, I’d run, I’d run, I’d run, if you would only call to me, light of my life.]

The air sparked as if bewitched. The air seemed crisper. Geralt’s chest seemed to breathe heavier with each inhale. There seemed a magic in the air, though no sorcerer or mage was about. Geralt got that heavy feeling where he felt as if though he were the sudden subject of Jaskier’s ballad.

“You know…” Geralt’s voice was calm, as it was when he was first approaching Roach, many years ago. “You will probably run out of things to sing about if you keep waking and chirping as you do.” It was not a request, it was not a plea, it was a lonely man fighting the affections in his heart. A solitary stone resisting being built into a home.

“ _Agh kain sheint ein the irhuig ui irhuig, eip’a vhooel tedd_.” [I can sing about you until the end of time.]

* * *

It’s winter, dead winter. Which means Jaskier has started his yearly tradition of holing up in a well-stocked tavern until the snow thaws, getting drunk at least five times a week to deal with, what Geralt considers, being his own company for so long. Geralt had his hands full taking down a nasty nest of ghouls, so he wouldn’t be privy to most of Jaskier’s...activities, but he’d hear about them well after. However, rather than a conversation, he just wanted a damn drink. Pockets full of coin from the shaking, grateful alderman, he was ready to spend most of it on draining this small town dry.

Jaskier was well into his third or fourth ale by the time Geralt opened the door. Some townies grumbled in his direction at the sudden burst of cold in the stifling tavern. Geralt shrugged and took a seat in a dark corner, as usual. He flipped a coin to the barmaid who set down a pint in front of him. It was watery, but Geralt knew that enough rounds would dull the edge of his aching bones.

And Jaskier, it seemed, was a whetstone that would just sharpen his edge back up again.

The bard in question was playing a lute that was slightly out of tune, singing less in words and more of guttural vocalizations that gave the _idea_ of words. Fourth ale, then. As soon as he caught his hazy sight on Geralt, he ambled over, another ale in hand. Rather than taking the customary seat across from the witcher, Jaskier has taken to falling at Geralt’s side, leaning up against his shoulder like the armor there was actually comfortable. Jaskier brushed off a bit of powdery snow from his shoulder that hadn’t melted just yet.

“ _Elaine tedd a’teghaine, hmm_?” [Lovely weather we’re having, hmm?”].

“You know I don’t have any clue what you’re saying right?” Geralt burred, giving the bard one of his small, rare smiles.

“S’why I speak like this. Now you get to know what everyone else feels when you go ‘hmm’.” Jaskier’s voice was a pale imitation of Geralt’s preferred answer to a question he’d rather not think on.

“Hmm.” Geralt smirked, steadying the smaller man as he made to fall straight into Geralt’s lap. “You’re very drunk, Jaskier.” The bard whined.

“ _N’te zol varh’he_.” [Don’t be such a bitch.]

“I may not know what you’re saying, but I can tell it’s nothing nice. Usually by the time you start saying mean things, that means you’re done drinking for the night.” Geralt started to hoist Jaskier up into his arms, dropping a silver coin on the table. Their shared room was thankfully close by the tavern, and Geralt hoped the stark temperature change would sober Jaskier up a bit.

“So many words for a man who values solitude!” Jaskier gasped, delighted. His hands were hanging on Geralt’s arms distractingly. “The phelbainne me kern.” [You’ve stolen my heart.]

“Don’t count on it happening often.” Geralt chuckled, removing his coat to wrap around the bard’s shoulders as they traveled back to the inn. 

“ _Aa, eisparte me en me kern, adem_!” [Ah, shoot me in the heart already!]

“Quiet, Jaskier.”

“ _Quiet, Jaskier._ ” the bard mocked back, childish. Geralt scooped him up in his arms again as they crunched through the snow. “Ooh, I love a dance!” Jaskier exclaimed, breath hot on Geralt’s neck. He swore he could feel Jaskier’s lips just upon his skin.

“This is not a dance, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted, swinging him up the stairs to the inn, which he could feel heat blessedly radiating from. Jaskier sighed, a pretty noise that lit up every bone in Geralt’s body like a wildfire.

“ _Ein ted agh a’dan ein the, me kern kain en threises velöshyn. Kein me a’beithe?_ ” [If I could dance with you, my heart would beat fastest. Give me a kiss?]

Geralt’s shoulders were up around his reddening ears by now. He understood that Jaskier was very good at convincing his way into many a warm bed, but suddenly having all of that attention turned on him admittedly made his knees weak.

“C’mon Jaskier, work with me here.” Geralt pleaded, yanking him up the steps with great difficulty, hiding his arousal as best he could. He had to pin Jaskier up against the wall to keep him from listing this way or that while he fished out the key to their room.

“ _T’eip ruadile ein a’beithe te, e’na the me einruadilet_?” [Should I redden my lips so you’ll kiss me, or will you just redden them yourself?]

The breathy way in which he said it sounded like a prayer, a curse, and a spell all at once. He knew Jaskier was just a horny drunk, but damn it, Geralt was drunk on Jaskier right back. Geralt used the palm of his hand to push the bard’s head back against the wall from where it was lolling forward dangerously. Geralt finally got the damned door open and they fell in. “You’re not going to like yourself very much when you wake up.” He grunted, tossing Jaskier bodily down on the bed. Jaskier wheezed a delighted laugh.

“ _Ein ted the wettet yn te n’bed, the garer ur a me, vatt’ghern_.” [If you wanted me in your bed so badly, you could have asked me, witcher.]

Geralt knew he was saying something undeniably lust-filled about the witcher, since Jaskier had imparted that _vatt’ghern_ was the Hen Linge word for witcher. It made him prick up his ears more often, now that he knew when he was being spoken about. Or sang about.

“Sleep, Jaskier. Don’t make me knock you out myself.” Geralt had meant for his tone to be commanding, but it came out calm, soft, gentle, all the things Jaskier had tricked him into being at times like this, where Jaskier wouldn’t remember what he was saying or doing in the morning. He let his hand fall softly on Jaskier’s forehead, smoothing back some of his hair, dampened from where melted snow had fallen upon it. The bard snuffed a little, pressing his face into Geralt’s hand, seeking warmth and comfort.

And who was Geralt to deny him now?

* * *

“You’re so bloody stupid, Geralt!” Jaskier yelled across the room at him. They were back at the inn, after Geralt had to bodily drag Jaskier away from a fight. A fight that was over, surprisingly, Geralt’s honor. “I could handle myself!”

“That doesn’t mean you go seeking trouble wherever it taunts you, bard!” Geralt shouted, but he was not unkind. He was angry, _furious_ , but there’s an underlying sense of worry there, of hurt. “You shouldn’t react that way when people say what they will. It has been happening for hundreds of years, to every Witcher that ever lived.”

“Not every Witcher has a fucking _one-man press team_ , Geralt! When someone wants to drag your name through the mud, mine goes right alongside it!” Geralt barked out a dry laugh.

“Always looking out for your own image, is that right. It’d save you a lot of heartbreak if you cast your name away from mine.” They both paced on either side of the room, caged animals held apart.

It’s Jaskier’s turn for a bitter laugh of his own. “That’s about as fruitless of an effort as tossing driftwood from the shore. Have you considered possibly that I fucking enjoy being here and on adventures with you? Have you considered that I—”

Jaskier cut himself off, suddenly looking terrified and flighty, like he’d said something he didn’t mean to say. Geralt could smell the apprehension and fear radiating off of Jaskier, and his anger dissipated along with his tone.

“Jaskier.” His voice was rough, and he took a step forward. “What is it?” A reaction from his bard this intense frightened him to his core. Jaskier still wouldn’t look up at him, shame filling his expression.

“It’s nothing, Geralt, I. I’m supposed to be mad at you.” he tries valiantly, but the deflated posture in his shoulders gave him away. “I wish. The people that say such awful things. I wish I could fight them all for you. You protect me from monsters, I just want to do the same for you.”

Their eyes meet across the short distance. Jaskier looks downright terrified. For a man so used to baring his feelings to rooms of strangers, he gives off the strange impression that he’d said too much. Geralt’s hand rises of its own accord to gently sweep away a lock of hair that had fallen across Jaskier’s face. Geralt can hear how his heart skips a beat, his breathing stutters, and can see the minute flutter of his lashes. Jaskier leans into his hand, desperately trying to convey what he was trying to say. He pressed a small kiss to Geralt’s warm palm before meeting his eyes again.

“ _Agh mein the_.” [I love you.]

Geralt surged forward to press their lips together. They’d both expected their first kiss to be hot, rough, and full of lust. They weren’t exactly wrong, but the heat was a burning flame that lit them up like a witch at the stake, the roughness was not violent, but weakened them, at the knees, behind their ribs, and eased the lump in their throats. The lust, however.

That was there in spades.

Their hands flailed to grab handfuls of the other, desperate and needy and itching with want. Jaskier let out a gasp as Geralt’s teeth sunk into his lower lip. His hips jerked forward into Geralt’s, who loosed a growl from deep in his chest. Jaskier was smiling, then, familiar with the sound more than his own name. Geralt was holding onto him, looking into his fucking _soul_ with so much intensity Jaskier forgot how to breathe. “Take me to bed, witcher.” Jaskier rasped, sucking on his throbbing lower lip in a way he knew distracted the man above him.

All at once, his body was scooped up into arms as thick as trees, as strong as iron bars, and _oh, what a prison to serve a sentence within._

“Geralt…” Jaskier moaned as his back hit the bed. Geralt climbed atop him, all lithe moves like a predatory creature. Jaskier had dreamt of this monster in his bed for countless nights, but this turned his world on its head. Geralt pressed him into the sheets, pinning his wrists by his head and kissing his way down Jaskier’s jaw and neck. The bard squirmed and writhed underneath the witcher, prey to his whims.

Geralt took his time laying kisses on every inch of skin he could get to, before Jaskier chimed in with an impatient whine. “ _Ategan, gwynbleidd_?” [Today, White Wolf?]

With a smirk, Geralt sat back on his heels, deftly undoing the complicated straps and buttons and ties that held Jaskier’s clothes on his body. It felt unfair that Jaskier had to hide his body like this all the time. If Geralt had his way, Jaskier would walk around wearing nothing whenever they were alone. Jaskier was straining at the front of his breeches, which Geralt took care of, along with his shoes. “Any other requests?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s hand came away from where it had been pinned against the mattress by his head. He looked thoughtful for a moment before palming his erection through his breeches.

“Mmm... _Dhaeniis the sapin_.” [Mmm...I need your cock.]

There was no time to ask what that meant, but Geralt could gather from context what his bard wanted. Geralt ground their erections together, the friction and heat driving Geralt’s senses wild. Jaskier was making such _pretty_ noises for him, right into his mouth, feeding him his want and need.

Geralt knew this first encounter was a long time coming, and they wouldn’t be able to last very long. He grunted and breathed hotly in Jaskier’s ear. “Not gonna last with you squirming under me like that.” Jaskier could only answer in a hot, formless moan, borne of desperate pleasure.

“More, more…” he panted. Geralt obliged, shoving their breeches down enough to free their cocks. Geralt smeared their precum along their shafts, taking both in one of his massive hands. Jaskier looked like a man possessed, writhing towards him. Geralt pumped their cocks in time, his hand a firm grip that had Jaskier falling apart. The bard gave a whine.

“ _Enhet, enhet_ …” [Like that, like that…]

Geralt knew they were both close. He panted, rising up on an elbow to look at Jaskier beneath him. “I love you.” Geralt growled. Jaskier’s eyes shot open, two seas looking up at twin suns. Jaskier was trying to speak, but could only open and close his mouth desperately, before he gasped in a rough breath and his back arched off the bed.

“Geralt—!” he cried, spilling all over Geralt’s hand, his cock, and his own belly. His body trembled, and he keened out a soft, lyrical moan. That noise carved its notes into Geralt’s skull as he spent as well, their seed mixing on Jaskier’s hot skin.

They caught their breaths, Geralt not daring to move even a fraction of an inch away from his bard, his Jaskier. Several glowy, sluggish minutes passed between them, neither moving. Suddenly, Jaskier gave a happy laugh and leaned over to kiss Geralt again. His face was brimming with happiness, eyes nearly shedding tears in his delight. Geralt returned the kisses as best he could before Jaskier pulled back.

“ _Anhaelsh me shainte_!” [You make me sing!]

Geralt gave a full, genuine smile to his bard, letting him express his love and joy. It was a gift, one he never intended to release. “You’ll have to teach me all those nasty things you’ve been teasing me with the last few years now, you realize?” Geralt’s hand stroked lazily through Jaskier’s hair. It was matted down with sweat in some areas.

“Never.” Jaskier teased, kissing the witcher’s nose affectionately. Geralt considered him a moment before leaning in and whispering against Jaskier’s ear.

“ _En’ca minne, kein me a’beithe_?” [Little love, give me a kiss?]


	3. Author Note and Apology to David Peterson

Listen.

I spent way too much time trying to make up lines of dialogue in a made up language that would be used in a made up story I made up because apparently fanfiction means "if you're not suffering, it's not art".

Yes this is because David Peterson (who did the Hen Linge translating for the Netflix show, and is the mastermind behind legible Dothraki and whatever is happening in The 100) translated 'penis' into Hen Linge (it's _sapin_ ) and it's in his livestream videos.

David I'm so sorry. Please do not correct my grammar in public.

Jaskier is canonically rusty at Elder Speech.

There is [technically a translator tool](https://lingojam.com/TheWitcher%3AElderSpeech) for Elder Speech online. It does not translate things like "I love you" or "Let's go to bed". It also doesn't use the show-canon orthography and spelling. I didn't use it whatsoever because it kept using the ae- instead of ei- spellings I prefer.

My sources for this include a [Russian forum of all the Elder words that have been shouted at Geralt](http://wiedzmin.mybb.ru/viewtopic.php?id=51) from the games, [an hour of livestream footage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TWYv27-mm0) [from David Peterson's channel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBm9DtMd7Wg) in which I kept screaming at my computer whenever he'd quickly pass over the B's and U's of his dictionary references (I just wanted 'but' and 'under' god help me), [the Elder Speech Wikia page](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Elder_Speech), and of course, [David's AO3 works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575658) which helped me understand some more of the grammar and syntax.

David, I will probably never know this conlang as well as your wife, but I gave it my all, this was your fault and I hope you're proud dude. Sorry for the smut, but hey, you worked on Game of Thrones.

You've been gifted this out of my own hubris.

As for all of the rest of you, if you have any questions about the work or translating Hen Linge, please feel free to ask! Thanks for reading!


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